They walked towards the door. Granet held it
open, leaning upon his stick.

“Many times, I trust,” he observed politely.

There was a second’s pause. His right hand
was half extended but his departing guest seemed not
to notice the fact. He merely nodded and put
on his hat.

“It is a small world,” he said, “especially,
although it sounds paradoxical, in the big places.”

He passed out. Granet listened to the sound of
his retreating footsteps with a frown upon his forehead.
Then he came back and stood for a moment upon the
rug in front of the fire, deep in thought. The
fox terrier played unnoticed about his feet. His
face seemed suddenly to have become older and more
thoughtful. He glanced at the card which Thomson
had left upon the sideboard.

“Surgeon-Major Thomson,” he repeated quietly
to himself. “I wonder!”

Thomson walked slowly to the end of Sackville Street,
crossed the road and made his way to the Ritz Hotel.
He addressed himself to the head clerk of the reception
counter.

“I am Surgeon-Major Thomson,” he announced.

“I was lunching here to-day and attended one
of the waiters who was taken ill afterwards.
I should be very glad to know if I can see him for
a few moments.”

The man bowed politely.

“I remember you quite well, sir,” he said.
“A Belgian waiter, was it not? He has been
taken away by a lady this afternoon.”

“Taken away?” Thomson repeated, puzzled.

“The lady who was giving the luncheon—­Lady
Anselman—­called and saw the manager about
an hour ago,” the man explained. “She
has interested herself very much in the matter of
Belgian refugees and is entertaining a great many
of them at a house of hers near the seaside.
The man is really not fit to work, so we were very
glad indeed to pass him on to her.”

“He recovered consciousness before he was removed,
I suppose?” Thomson inquired.